


The Road

by Lochinvar



Series: The Song of Wandering Aengus [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Afterlife, Attempt at Humor, Avalon - Freeform, Baby in Love, Bittersweet Ending, Boys In Love, Classic Cars, Dean Winchester and Sam Winchester in Love, Dogs, Endgame, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Ghosts, Happy Dean and Sam, Happy Ending, Horses, M/M, No Angst, No Smut, Other, POV Castiel, Post-Canon, Protective Dean Winchester, Sentient Baby, The Impala (Supernatural), Valhalla, Wincest - Freeform, Wincest if you squint, Younger Dean Winchester, Younger Sam WInchester, end fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-25
Updated: 2019-01-25
Packaged: 2019-10-16 06:03:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17544113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: “With respect…Heaven is lame. It’s like a movie set. Rubber knives and fake windows. I guess the food’s going to be okay, but…we’ve peeked behind the curtain too many times, know what I’m saying?"It's the end for Sam and Dean, but according to Billie, aka Death, they are running out of choices. Castiel is there to offer moral support, but the Angel doesn't know what Billie has in mind.Meanwhile, Baby makes a new friend.





	The Road

**Author's Note:**

> My preferred ending to the show.
> 
> I own nothing; rely on the talent and kindness of strangers. 
> 
> No Beta; all mistakes are mine to claim and bear.
> 
> Kudos and comments and bookmarks much appreciated - thank you.

"Haven't you ever got clean tuckered out and been able to draw on something you didn't know was there?"

[Doc Mellhorn And The Pearly Gates](https://gutenberg.ca/ebooks/benetsv-midnight06-docmellhorn/benetsv-midnight06-docmellhorn-00-h-dir/benetsv-midnight06-docmellhorn-00-h.html)

Stephen Vincent Benét (1939)

\-----

The old Hunter, Dean Winchester, is dying in his Angel’s arms. Nearby, brother Sam Winchester’s shade stands, waiting, his corpse shattered in the ambush.

Ten to one was considered fair odds against the boys. The things that attacked are now dust, mixing with the red sand at their feet. Above, in the black velvet of the New Mexico night, the Milky Way turns, slow dancing to the cosmic beat of pulsars.

“Cas, wanna see them.”

First time Dean ever asked directly.

Castiel, Angel of the Lord, manifests his wings and opens them, bigger than Dean remembers, a black and ominous shadow against the sky, like the cutting edge of a Kansas squall, blotting out the stars.

“Hurts,” says Dean.

Cas touches his forehead and feels his friend relax as he takes away the pain.

The brothers have lost their lives but won the battle. The world will go on, better than before, but nothing can be done for their broken bodies.

Sam that was, is patient, an image generated by his soul.

But where are their Reapers? Cas is puzzled.

Dean exhales one last time. Cas lets the empty vessel drop gently to the ground. The two shades stand side-by-side, hands entwined, resurrected at 18 and 22. Both of them need haircuts. Pretty much the same height; just before Sammy’s second to the last growth spurt. Clean, worn jeans rolled at the ankles and red-striped t-shirts. Black Converse®High Tops instead of steel-toed boots. Don’t look like hired killers. Look like Kansas boys, ready for a summer afternoon of serious play on a baseball diamond.

Behind them sits Baby, as solid as the day she came off her Detroit assembly line. Shiny. The constellations flow over her mirrored skin, caressing her. Reflections of planets and comets bounce off her, vying for her attention.

She also waits expectantly. Cas can hear her purr.

Haven’t seen her for twenty years, since she dove off into a bottomless ravine in Montana, drawing a pack of Hell Hounds after her. Saved a dozen Hunters’ lives that day. They gave her a proper funeral in absentia.

Been driving trucks since. More practical. More room. Less maintenance.

Never bothered to give them names.

Billie appears, dressed like Ella Fitzgerald in black satin and a choker of rubies and diamonds. To Dean, Death is as beautiful as Baby. Would have taken her for a spin in the day. Would love to hear her sing the blues.

Sam reads his brother’s mind.

“So out of your league,” he says, squeezing his big brother’s hand.

Dean pouts and then smiles at his baby brother, as radiant as a small sun.

“Castiel,” says Billie. “You shouldn’t have murdered me, but I like the promotion. Worked out better for me than for you.”

She turns and looks at the two boys, Dean grinning without the subtext of grief, Sam dimpling through a curtain of bangs. The brothers holding hands like toddlers.

“So, where are we going,” asks Dean. “Cas says that the _Big Empty_ ain’t so scary. And if _It_ thinks the Angel who tore up Heaven’s Rule Book is bad news, wait til  _It_ meets me and Sammy!”

Billie is uncharacteristically hesitant. Avoids looking at the Winchesters, focuses her attention on the Angel. Talks to him and pauses between sentences as if she were negotiating a treaty with souls from different countries  that speak different tongues and Castiel is the translator. As if she has to stay mum until he puts what she says into words that the brothers will understand. So, she pauses a beat between pronouncements, but Castiel never speaks.

“Obviously, Heaven doesn’t want you. No offense.”

Pause.

“None taken,” say the brothers, simultaneously.

They can hear Becky Rosen squeal from Heaven, enough reason not to lay siege to the _Pearly Gates._

“Cas,” says Dean, directing his attention to his best friend.  
  
“With respect…Heaven is lame. It’s like a movie set. Rubber knives and fake windows. I guess the food’s going to be okay, but we’ve peeked behind the curtain too many times, know what I’m saying? Great place for civilians who need a staycation. But even if we end up on my beach with those matching Hawaiian shirts, I’ll know it ain’t real.”

The bright-colored shirts flicker over the boys’ bodies like cartoon images during an NFL laser show, along with bubble-gum colored flip flops, white shorts, and very expensive sunglasses. Then gone. Back to timeless, Heartland basics.

Cas sighs and nods in agreement.

Billie clears her throat.

“Hell?” she continues, ticking off items on an invisible checklist.

“Frankly, too much history for both of you. The current ruler already has locked the main gates. Does not want the vessel of the former Boy King of Hell and his Demon Knight consort coming in and taking over.”

Pause.

Sam and Dean shrug.

“Not looking for new employment,” says Sam. “Even if we are guaranteed the corner office with the view.”

Pause.

“The Guardians of Purgatory would have taken one of you, but not both together,” said Billie. “They took a vote.”

Pause.

“There are other options,” she says, but she does not look hopeful.

Castiel watches. He maintains his stoic façade with some difficulty. Too many decades on Earth hanging out with the volatile Winchester family has contaminated his Grace with human emotions. Still not sure what Death has in mind.

And he always has been a curious Angel, which has gotten him into trouble more than once.

\-----

A whir of Heaven-grade feathers. Two women appear on winged horses. They are dressed in silver and gold armor, both taller than grown-up Sam. Eyes blaze blue as if they are powered-up Angels. Long spears. Laced up boots. Ornate helmets with metal pinions, set with jewels. The wings move, responding to the moods of their mistresses.

Awesome, thinks Dean. Sam can’t take his eyes off the fairy tale flying steeds. No bridles or saddles. The sisters ride them bareback, whispering in their ears as they plummet into battlegrounds to carry off the chosen few.

Sam hears Dean inhale, in preparation for humming the immortal Elmer Fudd take on Wagnerian opera.

Punches him in the side out of brotherly habit. Hard. Surprised that his solid elbow hits Dean’s solid ribs.

Billie glares at them using her scary Mom face. Probably learned it from Missouri.

“We will take the brothers,” says one of the maidens in heavily accented English.

(Later, Dean tells Sam she sounded like an extra from the movie _Fargo,_ but he didn’t think it was an opportune time to bring it up. Has the same Scandinavian lilt as their sheriff sister-in-arms Donna did, once upon a time.)

“The Winchesters are heroes, sure enough,” says her sister. “Valhalla will suit them. Mead and swords. You fight, you die, you are resurrected, you feast. Forever.”

“What about my Baby?” asks Dean, gesturing towards the Impala. She is growling possessively, revving her engine in a menacing manner at the two giant white stallions: the traditional American muscle car challenge of “Bring it on, bring it on.”

The mystical shield maidens do not acknowledge the automobile, disregarding her hissy fit. Their answer is clear.

Sam and Dean look very young as they grip each other’s hands tighter and shakes their heads in unison.

“Sorry, Miss, Miss,” says a polite Sammy, acknowledging each warrior in turn with a nod, admiring the Pegasi wistfully before they vanish with their riders in a puff of down.

Billie and Castiel exchange glances. Billie looks away.

\-----

Over the next hour, representatives of a dozen mythologies appear, offering their version of a Winchester afterlife. Each one dismissed with cause. Togas? Endless gardens? Clouds with harps? Ice caves? Dank underground kingdoms, crisscrossed with canals and swamps, surrounded by unhappy souls?

Pan and Dionysus, nude and inebriated, with their bands of followers. Pan’s flute songs, as compelling as any siren, have little effect on the brothers.

Chalk it up to their yearly visits to Las Vegas. A week is cool, but eternity? Sam is surprised when Dean mouths no. Maybe, maybe, Dean is growing up?

Castles? Castles with harems? Harems in tents? Reincarnation as lions and tigers and bears? Not optimistic. Or well-cared-for cows. Or reborn as mountains or constellations: the brothers don’t get how the transformations are supposed to work.

Has Billie met these boys? What is she thinking? And why is she giving them so many dodgy choices? As if she wants them to say no?

An unintentionally comical parade of mythos and lore. Castiel has to bite the inside of Jimmy’s cheeks to keep from laughing out loud. Billie is an old acquaintance, but even as a Reaper she was scary. And there is that issue of Castiel’s killing her. Not forgiven or forgotten, he is guessing, although she has been more than civil.

An enormous white stag appears, transforming as it struts towards Sam and Dean into a tall human hunter dressed in animal skins. A longbow and quiver of arrows balance on his broad back. Has a rack of silver antlers on his head and large, golden cats’ eyes with vertical pupils, framed with long eyelashes. Around his leather leggings swarm a pack of giant, white dogs, smooth-coated hounds with red eyes, yipping silently.

The godling’s voice sounds like thunder rolling across the landscape, warning of a distant storm.

“Join my Hunt,” he says and beckons to the brothers. They can feel the immense hypnotic power he wields, the roots of which dig deep into Nature and the Land.

“Herne,” says Sam. “We are honored.”

Sam bows and takes a step forward. Dean drops his brother’s hand and wraps his arms around his shoulders, a perfect fit. Pulls Sammy back.

The godling is strong, but the Winchester soul bond is stronger. The great stag reappears, and the hounds follow it as it bounds forward and leaps into the sky. When its hooves push against the ground to launch the beast and its pack into the air, the sound of lightning cracks and sizzles around them.

Dean lets go of Sammy and kisses him on the cheek. They stand, waiting, fingers touching.

\-----

The best invitation comes from a banner [Editor: A collective noun for Knights] of 20, the genuine article, sent from the orchards of Avalon by King Arthur himself. Both brothers are awestruck.

The Knights dismount as one. Broad-shouldered, each wearing the insignia of the Red Dragon. Their helmets are open-faced, and they are smiling and sun-tanned. They remove their headgear and stride up to pay homage to Billie with a group bow and move on to bend a knee to Castiel, who seems embarrassed by the attention.

Then, like schoolboys on a playground, the Knights swarm around the brothers, talking at once. Manly hugs and handshakes. Speaking of the honor of meeting the now-young men and their admiration for the American Hunter clans.

The stallions, fierce at first glance, act more like overgrown puppies, unintimidated by Death and the Angel, who pet their velvety noses. The horses nuzzle the outstretched hands of the Beings and the pockets of their riders, sniffing the brothers’ hair and clothing, searching for treats. Snorting at each other in games of tags, nipping at each others' flanks in play.

Baby preens under the praise of the Knights, who appreciate her sleek lines. They volunteer that she will be resurrected as a _destrier,_ the elite of war horses. Sam is to have his pick of the stables.

Sammy shyly asks about the possibility of a dog. The Knights are puzzled when the younger Hunter mentions playing fetch. They explain that King Arthur’s favorite hound, Cavall, loves to disembowel large, cursed boars.

The Knights are not familiar with a weapon called a Frisbee®.

But then Dean poses The Question.

“And what will we  _do?”_  he asks.

Sam answers. From memory, he quotes the line from his grade school book about the Knights of the Round Table.

“We will rest in the shade of the apple orchards of Avalon, waiting for the Call, if and when the Blessed Isles need assistance.”

The Knights nod.

“And…? And then…?” Dean gestures encouragingly, hoping to hear more.

“That’s it, De. We hang out. Eat. Joust. Drink. Rinse and repeat. Eternity redux. Another version of Valhalla.”

Pause.

“Nope,” says his big brother.

“We save people. That’s our job. Even now. It’s in our blood, Campbell and Winchester, Hunters and Men of Letters. Yeah, our family was manipulated for eons, so Sammy and I could be vessels during the Apocalypse for douchebag archangels, but here we are.

“Nobody has offered us a deal worth taking.”

“But Dean,” begins Sam, snaking his arm behind his brother’s back and pulling him close.

“If we stay as ghosts we’ll become batshit crazy. And dirt mean. Revengeful. Just as bad as the hundreds of spirits we salted and burned. Hey, King Arthur will let Baby come with us. She’ll look great as a war horse. How cool is that?”

Dean shakes his head. Sam looks at the Knights and shrugged.

If Baby could, she would have shrugged as well. Instead, she blinks her lights three times, her equivalent of “Okay”. For once, she drops her prima donna act; knows it is the end of the line. As long as she can watch over her boys, she will cope.

The Knights confer. They mount up. One edges his dappled gray charger forward.

“We will be back, if you change your minds.”

The horses whirl as one, kicking up dust and sand, and they disappear through an invisible portal. The boys get a whiff of cut grass, warm late summer breezes, and ripening apples.

\-----

Dean and Sam hug, shoulder to chest to hip.

Billie clears her throat.

They step back from each and turn to face the music.

“Hey,” says Dean. “It’s me and Sammy against the world. We’ll figure it out. We always do.”  
  
What he means: All they have are each other.

\-----

Billie lets herself sound annoyed.

“Dean, honestly, sometimes you and Samuel behave as if you are the first and only humans who share a calling.”

“One last opportunity,” she says. “The Rules require me to offer the others first. This one…let’s just call it off-label. Not forbidden, not condoned."

Not clear what happens next. Castiel watches as a ground fog rises from a nearby arroyo. The High Country night air, crystal clear, blurs, and a crowd of people walk out of the mist.

Dean and Sam can’t tell if they are humans or spirits or monsters. Castiel notes that they are ghosts, but more, like some of the substantial shades they have encountered in their hunts. Corporeal with souls intact. Have the spiritual gravitas of Reapers. And friendly.

But their frequency is off, like a radio signal bouncing off a pancake stack of thunderheads from hundreds of miles away. Shouldn’t be able to pick up that broadcast from this location.

These folks should not exist, here and now.

It’s a motley crew. About a hundred men and women who look as if they are leaving the movie extras cafeteria at Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer during Hollywood’s Golden Age. A mix of clothing, ethnicities, and centuries.

A pale-faced nurse from the American Civil War, carrying a worn leather bag, blonde braids wrapped around her head like a halo. An Oklahoma state trooper, skin like burnished copper, wearing the beads of an elder of his tribe.

A trio of American soldiers; their uniforms span a hundred years. A large German Shepherd lounges at their feet, waiting for the next deployment. A librarian from the 1920s, high-necked lace collar and tidy bun, holding a stack of picture books. A teacher from a 19th century Nebraska prairie school, grim-faced, dressed in black, carrying a bible and a dictionary. But he winks at Sam.

An African-American chemist, white-haired, wearing a lab coat with the insignia of a prestigious Midwestern university. Next to him, a South Chicago steelworker, holding a coal shovel. Next to him, an antebellum plantation slave, dressed in clothing sewn from flour bags, holding a sack of corn. Three men: son, father, and grandfather.

Don’t know how Castiel and the Winchesters know, they just do.

A brown-eyed Colorado rancher rides up astride a sleek bay cow pony, shiny as a new penny. Tips her hat to Billie, Castiel, and the boys. Could have been from 1886 or 2020. Her parents were Basque sheepherders.

There are wigged judges and janitors, plumbers and architects, truckers and bankers, foster parents and firefighters. Moms and dads. A prehistoric killer of wooly mammoths who perished in an Ice Age blizzard. A grey hacker working for the NSA, dead when her plane went down under mysterious circumstances.  
  
Who are they, what do they have in common, why are they here?

Castiel figures it out first, addressing Sam and Dean, while the people in the crowd murmur quiet greetings to each other, shake hands and hug, pet the dogs and horses, praise the cars and wagons, and swapped the Veil’s equivalent of cell phone numbers.

“I might be wrong,” begins the Angel, “But I think these are some of the humans who have said no to their respective Heavens when it was their time. Good people, with a goal. Who wanted to stay on Earth and help, as they did when they were alive.

“They aren’t the same as the unanchored, troubled spirits you hunted. In life these people had strong meaning and purpose. A mission. A good reason to stay in this place, on this plane of existence. And when their time came, they turned down the acceptable choices. Wanted to keep saving people. Beautiful souls.

“Sound familiar, my brothers?”

Sam and Dean smile. When Cas is emotional, he becomes sentimental and will call the Winchesters _my brothers_ and affectionate pet names.

Meanwhile, Billie retreats into the shadows. Stays to watch and let the final curtain drop. Her work is almost done. Castiel knows she has a soft spot for _Team Free Will._ When asked Death will admit only that she thinks the Three Amigos are… interesting.

Cas continues. The crowd is quiet, listening, smiling. Welcoming.  
  
“The woman who finds the strength to pull a confused, sick, elderly man, walking at night, out of the path of a trucker who just fell asleep. The soldier who dodges a bullet and rescues a fallen comrade. The parent who finds the energy to work three jobs to put food on the table. The scientist who solves a complex math problem in a dream. The kid who stands up to the playground bully and makes a new friend. The elected official who finds the courage to do the right thing, even though it means the end of her political career.

“A hundred thousand major and minor miracles each day. Humans making what is improbable, possible. And one reason is because of these souls, working behind the scenes. Resting a loving, invisible hand on someone's shoulder. And more, when they can. The cancer didn’t spread. The dam didn’t break, the plane didn’t fall out of the sky. The epidemic was contained. The bank robbery didn’t happen.

“Maybe there was a time when that was what my angelic brothers and sisters in Heaven were supposed to be doing. But for too long we have thought of ourselves only as soldiers. And we lost our way.

“And now there are too few of us. So someone else answers prayers.

“I think if you say the word to Billie... you, Dean and Sam, and Baby, of course, you can join their ranks.”

Dean and Sam were silent. Fingers laced together.

“What would we do?” asks Dean, staring down at the red sand.

“Dean Winchester,” says Billie, emerging from the dark. “Anything you and Samuel want.”

Sam looks like someone has given him his own puppy. Castiel can hear the gears in his Big Brain turning.

Baby hums in satisfaction.

On the far horizon, Venus is rising. The ghosts/not-ghosts are leaving, walking and driving back through the arroyo.

A convoy of trucks are rumbling in the distance. Hunters coming to find the bodies. Bringing Sam and Dean home to Kansas for a Hunter’s funeral.

Time to go.

“Sammy?” asks Dean.

Sam nods.

“We’re in, says Dean.

Billie disappears.

\-----

“What about you, Cas?” asks Sam.

“Yeah, dude, want to play Angel with us, say, for the next thousand years or so? Until we find a better gig?"  
  
“I _am_ an Angel,” says Castiel. But then he smiles a Jimmy smile.

“A joke,” says Dean, making air quotes.

Castiel and the brothers exchange quick hugs.

\-----

A few of the shades remain, to talk with the boys and Angel about their new jobs. Advice and direction. The do’s and don’ts. Sam, of course, has a million questions. Dean just listens, watching his brother nerd out. Happy.

A beefy blond cop, with pale blue eyes and a broken nose, wearing the distinctive Chicago checkerboard band on his hat, saunters up to the Angel and Winchester boys. Behind him trails a battered Dodge Polara police car, about Baby’s age, sniffing the ground as it rolls, pretending not to notice the Impala.

The cop holds out a hand as big as grown-up Sam’s. The young men and Angel shake. A warm and firm grip. Nope, not your everyday specter.

“Name of Isaac Leibowitz,” he says. “Friends call me Ike.”

A Star of David dangles from a chain around his neck.  
  
Motions at his car with his chin.

“This is Earl. He’d like to meet your lady, if that’s okay with you and her.”

Dean is adorable in his protective Dad mode, but Sam intervenes.

“Let’s leave it up to Baby, shall we? She can decide.”

Sammy pulls Dean over to the side for a private chat.

“Come on, De,” he whispers to his brother, “Show her some respect. She’s older than you, remember. Kind of like our big sister. Or the cool older girl who lives next door.”

Earl edges closer. Baby sniffs the air. And purrs.

Ike the police officer watches the cars interact as he talks.

“I bid for Earl in a Cook County auction after a bunch of Chicago-area police cars got busted up in some action in 1980. He was the best partner a cop could want for years, till we slid on some black ice on Upper Wacker Drive and flew into the Chicago River.

“Met Rufus Turner when he was a state cop in Illinois, around the time I bought Earl. After the accident, I followed up and learned about his new job, hunting. Sent him cases, backed him up when I could. Of course, Rufus never knew it was me; just chalked it up to good fortune and his awesome skill set.”

The cop indulges in a good belly laugh.

“Got to watch Hunters work up close. Good men and women. Saw your daddy in action, Bobby Singer, and watched you boys grow up. Real pleasure to meet you in person, so to speak.”

In the background, the cars are flirting. Sparks are flying. Like literally, flitting around the old cars like fireflies.

“Nice to see Earl so happy.”

Ike takes off his hat and holds it in both hands.

“Would like to roll with you guys for a spell. I remember when I signed on, there was a lot to learn. Maybe I can smooth the way?”

“Can he keep up?” asks Dean, pointing at Earl. “No offense…”

Ike walks up to his car.  
  
“Open up, boy,” he says, thumping the hood with his fist to get the attention of the besotted Dodge.   
  
The lid flips up.

The brothers approach, and Dean leans in.

“375-horsepower, 440-cubic-inch V8,” he says, with reverence. Thumbs up.

Earl puffs a little. Baby doesn’t swoon, exactly, but the humans and Angel know it is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Sam, waving Castiel to follow, goes up to Baby. Her doors swings open, and he curls into the passenger’s side. Dean gives Earl a friendly tap, walks over to Baby, lays a kiss on top of her roof, and slides into the driver’s seat.

Castiel settles in the back, and the doors close. A cooler of beer appears next to the Angel. And a picnic basket. Dean and Sam can smell the burgers and pie.  
  
“Let’s be good guys,” says Sam.

Baby fishtails out of the battlefield, Earl and Ike right behind, toward the breaking dawn.

 -----

Excerpted from the _Song of the Open Road_ – Walt Whitman 

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road!  
Healthy, free, the world before me!  
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose!

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I am good-fortune,  
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,  
Strong and content, I travel the open road.

The earth—that is sufficient,  
I do not want the constellations any nearer,  
I know they are very well where they are,  
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,  
I carry them, men and women—I carry them with me wherever I go,  
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,  
I am filled with them, and I will fill them in return.

**Author's Note:**

> Canon Heaven and Hell have bugged me for years. There are so many better choices for our boys, but, inspired by the short story, Doc Mellhorn And The Pearly Gates, by Stephen Vincent Benét (1939), I knew from the beginning where they should be. 
> 
> Kudos to the readers who know where Earl the cop car came from and what Rufus was doing in Chicagoland in 1980. (Hint: He was a state trooper, chasing down two miscreant musicians.)
> 
> To my many learned academic friends who actually know something about mythology. Apologies. Yes, I cheated in my descriptions, pulling from many sources. Gasp - made some stuff up.
> 
> And yes, in my head canon, Baby is sentient. Has been for a while. I have the origin fic in the queue, of when and how she woke up. Some day soon.
> 
> The Walt Whitman verses suited my feelings about the brothers. I stick stories in this series that have inspirations from classic works.
> 
> And one of my favorite cousins was a Chicago cop. One of the good ones.


End file.
